The Sacrament of Betrayal

My friend, dearly loved,
Soon I will give my life for you.
Given the chance, I would drink
This cup again.
(what you must do, do quickly)

Into your hands
I place my trust, knowing
You will sell it for a pittance
That costs me everything.
(how much will you give me for Him?)

And you, you who have seen
Yet turn your face away—
Unbearable, your shame—
I will bear it for you.
(look, my betrayer is here)

Come now, and
Crucify me
With your parting gift—
A single, piercing kiss.
(greetings, Rabbi)

I remember the first time he confessed. I sat rigidly in a wooden chair from my friend’s kitchen table, dragged into the study so we could have some privacy. My body felt small and cold; my jaw was clenched. I knew something was wrong, and was bracing myself for pain. He sat across from me in a swivel chair, nervously spinning side to side as he read aloud the letter in which he confessed his acts of unfaithfulness in our marriage. Everything inside me crumbled as I began to process the fact that what I thought I knew about our life together was a lie. The fabric of our marriage was now tainted with the dark and indelible stain of betrayal.

 This piece is not about my story or the person who hurt me.

It’s about pain. Pain that we all experience. The kind that takes your breath away. The kind that leaves you so broken and bruised on the inside that it makes your whole body ache. A pain so heavy that it crushes you and brings you to your knees, begging for relief, for just a few drops of mercy.

Here is something I never learned in Sunday school:

Life hurts.

No matter how hard you work to avoid it, you will at some point be blindsided by a wave of pain so strong that it takes you under, pinning you to the shifting ocean floor. You will feel betrayed—by someone you trusted, by your own body, by abuse, suffering, and loss—even by God. You will wonder at the fact that life goes on around you, when it feels like time has stopped. You might begin to wonder if life is worth living at all.

When the things we build our lives upon with surety and hope are yanked out from under us, where do we stand?

This week a friend sent me Christina Rossetti’s poem, “A Better Resurrection.” Though it was written in 1857, her articulation of suffering is as timely as ever. Rossetti writes,

I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numb’d too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone.

Rossetti concludes her poem of hope-laced lament by asking God to re-shape and resurrect her deadened life through the fire of suffering:

Cast in the fire the perish’d thing;
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him, my King:
Oh Jesus, drink of me.

 “Oh Jesus, drink of me,” she prays to the one who hung thirsty on the cross for her sake—swallowing death for the redemption of your life and mine. The One who fell to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me” drank the cup of pain to the full. During my divorce, I begged God to make the suffering go away. I did not think I could walk through such devastation or endure such agony. It was almost Easter, and I had no desire to celebrate resurrection when a part of me was dying. But during that season, God graciously brought to my attention a simple yet life-changing revelation:

Jesus was betrayed, too.

Just like me.

How had I not realized the significance of this sooner?

On the night before his death, Jesus shared a final meal with his disciples. John describes Jesus as “troubled in spirit” as he tells the shocked disciples that one of them will indeed betray Him. Looking around the table at his closest friends, he quotes Psalm 41:

Even my close friend,
someone I trusted,
one who shared my bread,
has turned against me.

Knowing he would soon be betrayed by his dear friend, Jesus loved him anyways. He washed his feet, he broke bread with him, he died for him. Picture the people in this life who have wounded you most deeply:

If you knew in advance that they would hurt you, would you love them anyways?
Would you wash their feet?  

When it truly sank in that Jesus was betrayed, too—not by a faceless mob, but by someone he loved and trusted—I began to see that our wounds are not evidence of God’s distance. Instead, our suffering binds us closer to the bleeding heart of Jesus.

Jesus’ wounds are evidence of God’s identification with us in all things.

The God who feels far in pain is closer than a whisper. He is the God who came near, breaking his own heart with us and for us. He draws near, still.

There is no pain too big or wound too deep that Jesus has not taken upon himself.
That is what we celebrate this week as we journey with Jesus towards Calvary.

Here is the most important thing you will ever learn in Sunday School:

By His wounds we are healed.

A prayer:

Oh Jesus, we love you.
You suffered and died willingly for our sake.
There is no suffering too great or wound too deep
That you have not experienced Yourself.
Your blood redeems every ounce of our pain.
Your wounds heal our wounds.
In times of blessing, in times of weeping, we honor you, Jesus.
You are our Brother, our Savior, our King.

Amen.